Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

T'was a bright May morn, and each opening flower
Lay sunning itself in Flora's bower;
Young Love, who was fluttering round, espied
The blossoms so gay in their painted pride;
And he gazed on the point of a feathered dart,
For mischief had filled the boy-god's heart;
And laughed as his bowstring of silk he drew,
And away that arrow at random flew:
Onward it sped like a ray of light,
And fell on a flower of virgin white,
Which glanced all snowy and pure at the sun,
And wept when his glorious course was run:
Two little drops on its pale leaves lay
Pure as pearls, but with diamond ray,
(Like the tear on Beauty's lid of snow,
Which waits but Compassion to bid it flow;)

It rested, that dart; and its pointed tip
Sank deep where the bees were wont to sip;
And the sickening flower gazed with grief
On the purple stains which dimmed each leaf,
And the crystal drops on its leaves that stood
Blushed with sorrow and shame till they turned to blood.

It chanced that Flora, wandering by,
Beheld her flow'ret droop and die;
And Love laughed in scorn at the flower-queen's woe,
As she vainly shook its leaves of snow.
Fled from her lip was the smile of light:—
“Oh! who hath worked thee this fell despite!
Thou who did'st harm, alas! to none,
But joyed'st all day in the beams of the sun!”
“'Twas Love!” said the flower, and a scented sigh
Loaded the gale that murmured by.
'Twas Love! and the dew-drops that blushed on the wound
Sank slow and sad to the pitying ground.

“'Twas Love!” said Flora: “accursed be the power
That could blight the bloom of so fair a flower.
With whispers and smiles he wins Beauty's ears,
But he leaves her nothing save grief and tears.

Ye gods! shall he bend with such tyranny still
The weak and the strong to his wanton will?
No! the hearts that he joins may rude discord sever;
Accursed be his power for ever and ever.”
She spoke, and wept; and the echo again
Repeated the curse, but all in vain—
The tyrant laughed as he fluttered away,
Spreading his rainbow wings to the day,
And settling at random his feathered darts
To spoil sweet flowers, or break fond hearts.

He fled—and the queen o'er her flower in vain
Poured the evening dew and the April rain,
The purple spots on her heart still were.
And she said, as she wept her fruitless care,
“The blight and the stain may be washed away,
But what Love hath ruined must sink in decay.”

And she sent it on earth, to dwell below
In the autumn fog and the winter snow.
And even, 'tis said, on summer eves
O'er that sad lost flower she wails and grieves;
And the drops that by mortals as dew are seen
Are the tears of the mourning flower-queen.
And when men are gazing with fond delight
On its varied leaves, and call them bright,
And praise the velvet tints, and say
There never was flower more pure and gay:

That flow'ret says, as it droops its head,
“Alas! for the day when by love I bled;
When my feathery flowers were pure and white,
And my leaves had no earthly stain or blight,
When no chilling blasts around me blew,
And in Flora's garden of light I grew.
Oh! the blight and the stain may be washed away,
But what Love hath ruined must sink in decay.”

THE CARELESS WORD.

A word is ringing thro' my brain,
It was not meant to give me pain;
It had no tone to bid it stay,
When other things had past away;
It had no meaning more than all
Which in an idle hour fall:
It was when first the sound I heard
A lightly uttered, careless word.

That word—oh! it doth haunt me now,
In scenes of joy, in scenes of woe;
By night, by day, in sun or shade,
With the half smile that gently played
Reproachfully, and gave the sound
Eternal power thro' life to wound.
There is no voice I ever heard,
So deeply fix'd as that one word.

When in the laughing crowd some tone,
Like those whose joyous sound is gone,
Strikes on my ear, I shrink—for then
The careless word comes back again.
When all alone I sit and gaze
Upon the cheerful home-fire blaze,
Lo! freshly as when first 'twas heard,
Returns that lightly uttered word.

When dreams bring back the days of old,
With all that wishes could not hold;
And from my feverish couch I start
To press a shadow to my heart—
Amid its beating echoes, clear
That little word I seem to hear:
In vain I say, while it is heard,
Why weep?—'twas but a foolish word.

It comes—and with it come the tears,
The hopes, the joys of former years;
Forgotten smiles, forgotten looks,
Thick as dead leaves on autumn brooks,
And all as joyless, though they were
The brightest things life's spring could share.
Oh! would to God I ne'er had heard
That lightly uttered, careless word!

It was the first, the only one
Of those which lips for ever gone
Breathed in their love—which had for me
Rebuke of harshness at my glee:
And if those lips were here to say,
“Beloved, let it pass away,”
Ah! then, perchance—but I have heard
The last dear tone—the careless word!

Oh! ye who, meeting, sigh to part,
Whose words are treasures to some heart,
Deal gently, ere the dark days come,
When earth hath but for one a home;
Lest, musing o'er the past, like me,
They feel their hearts wrung bitterly,
And, heeding not what else they heard,
Dwell weeping on a careless word.

OLD FRIENDS.

How are they waned and faded from our hearts,
The old companions of our early days!
Of all the many loved, which name imparts
Regret when blamed, or rapture at its praise?
What are their several fates, by Heaven decreed,
They of the jocund heart, and careless brow?
Alas! we scarcely know and scarcely heed,
Where, in this world of sighs, they wander now.

See, how with cold faint smile, and courtly nod,
They pass, whom wealth and revelry divide—
Who walked together to the house of God,
Read from one book, and rested side by side;
No look of recognition lights the eye
Which laughingly hath met that fellow-face;
With careless hands they greet and wander by,
Who parted once with tears and long embrace.

Oh, childhood! blessed time of hope and love,
When all we knew was Nature's simple law,
How may we yearn again that time to prove,
When we looked round, and loved whate'er we saw.
Now dark suspicion wakes, and love departs,
And cold distrust its well-feigned smile displays;
And they are waned and faded from our hearts,
The old companions of our early days!

THE FUTURE.

I was a laughing child, and gaily dwelt
Where murmuring brooks, and dark blue rivers roll'd,
And shadowy trees outspread their silent arms,
To welcome all the weary to their rest.
And there an antique castle raised its head,
Where dwelt a fair and fairy girl: perchance
Two summers she had seen beyond my years;
And all she said or did, was said and done
With such a light and airy sportiveness,
That oft I envied her, for I was poor,
And lowly, and to me her fate did seem
Fraught with a certainty of happiness.
Years past; and she was wed against her will,
To one who sought her for the gold she brought,
And they did vex and wound her gentle spirit,
Till madness took the place of misery.
And oft I heard her low, soft, gentle song,
Breathing of early times with mournful sound,
Till I could weep to hear, and thought how sad,
The envied future of her life had prov'd.

And then I grew a fond and thoughtful girl,
Loving, and deeming I was lov'd again:
But he that won my easy heart, full soon
Turn'd to another:—she might be more fair,
But could not love him better. And I wept,
Day after day, till weary grew my spirit,
With fancying how happy she must be
Whom he had chosen—yet she was not so;
For he she wedded, loved her for a time,
And then he changed, even as he did to me,
Though something later; and he sought another
To please his fancy, far away from home.
And he was kind: oh, yes! he still was kind.
It vexed her more; for though she knew his love
Had faded like the primrose after spring,
Yet there was nothing which she might complain,
Had cause to grieve her; he was gentle still.
She would have given all the store she had,
That he would but be angry for an hour,
That she might come and sooth his wounded spirit,
And lay her weeping head upon his bosom,
And say, how freely she forgave her wrongs:
But still, with calm, cold kindness he pursued
(Kindness, the mockery of departed love!)
His way—and then she died, the broken hearted;
And I thanked heaven, who gave me not her lot,
Though I had wish'd it.
Again, I was a wife, a happy wife;
And he I loved was still unchangeable,
And kind, and true, and loved me from his soul;

But I was childless, and my lonely heart
Yearned for an image of my heart's beloved,
A something which should be my ‘future’ now
That I had so much of my life gone by;
Something to look to after I should go,
And all except my memory be past.
There was a child, a little rosy thing,
With sunny eyes, and curled and shining hair,
That used to play among the daisy flowers,
Looking as innocent and fair as they;
And sail its little boat upon the stream,
Gazing with dark blue eyes in the blue waters,
And singing in its merriment of heart
All the bright day: and when the sun was setting,
It came unbid to its glad mother's side,
To lisp with holy look its evening prayer:
And, kneeling on the green and flowery ground,
At the sweet cottage door—he fixed his eyes
For some short moments on her tranquil face,
As if she was his guiding star to God;
And then with young, meek, innocent brow upraised,
Spoke the slow words with lips that longed to smile,
But dared not. Oh! I loved that child with all
A mother's fondest love; and, as he grew
More and more beautiful from day to day,
The half-involuntary sigh I gave
Spoke but too plain the wish that he were mine—
My child—my own. And in my solitude,
Often I clasped my hands and thought of him,
And looked with mournful and reproachful gaze

To heaven, which had denied me such a one.
Years past: the child became a rebel boy;
The boy a wild, untamed, and passionate youth;
The youth a man—but such a man! so fierce,
So wild, so headlong, and so haughty too,
So cruel in avenging any wrongs,
So merciless when he had half avenged them!
At length his hour had come—a deed of blood,
Of murder, was upon his guilty soul.
He stood in that same spot, by his sweet home,
The same blue river flowing by his feet,
(Whose stream might never wash his guilt away;)
The same green hills, and mossy sloping banks,
Where the bright sun was smiling as of yore:
With pallid cheek and dark and sullen brow,
The beautiful and lost; you might have deemed
That Satan, newly banished, stood and gazed
On the bright scenery of an infant world.
For, fallen as he was, his Maker's hand
Had stamped him beauteous, and he was so still.
And his eyes turned from off his early home
With something like a shudder; and they lighted
On his poor broken-hearted mother's grave.
And there was something in them of old times,
Ere sin had darkened o'er their tranquil blue,
In that most mournful look—that made me weep;
“For I had gazed on him with fear and anguish
Till now. And, ‘weep for her,’ my favourite said,
For she was good—I murdered her—I killed
Many that harmed me not.” And still he spoke

In a low, listless voice; and forms came round
Who dragged him from us. I remember not
What followed then. But on another day,
There was a crowd collected, and a cart
Slowly approached to give to shameful death
Its burden; and there was a prayer, and silence,
Silence like that of death. And then a murmur!
And all was over. And I groaned, and turned
To where his poor old father had been sitting;
And there he sate, still with his feeble limbs
And palsied head, and dim and watery eyes,
Gazing up at the place where was his son;
And with a shuddering touch I sought to rouse him,
But could not, for the poor old man was dead.
And then I flung myself upon the ground,
And mingled salt tears with the evening dew;
And thanked my God that he was not my son;
And that I was a childless, lonely wife.
To-morrow I will tell thee all that now
Remains to tell—but I am old and feeble,
And cannot speak for tears.

She rose and went,
But she returned no more. The morrow came,
But not to her;—the tale of life was finished,
Not by her lips, for she had ceased to breathe.
But, by this silent warning joined to hers,
How little we may count upon the future,
Or reckon what that future may bring forth

RECOLLECTIONS.

Do you remember all the sunny places,
Where in bright days, long past, we played together?
Do you remember all the old home faces
That gathered round the hearth in wintry weather?
Do you remember all the happy meetings,
In Summer evenings round the open door—
Kind looks, kind hearts, kind words and tender greetings,
And clasping hands whose pulses beat no more?
Do you remember them?

Do you remember all the merry laughter;
The voices round the swing in our old garden:
The dog that, when we ran, still followed after;
The teasing frolic sure of speedy pardon:
We were but children then, young happy creatures,
And hardly knew how much we had to lose—
But now the dreamlike memory of those features
Comes back, and bids my darkened spirit muse.
Do you remember them?

Do you remember when we first departed
From all the old companions who were round us,
How very soon again we grew light-hearted,
And talked with smiles of all the links which bound us?
And after, when our footsteps were returning,
With unfelt weariness, o'er hill and plain;
How our young hearts kept boiling up, and burning,
To think how soon we'd be at home again,
Do you remember this?

Do you remember how the dreams of glory
Kept fading from us like a fairy treasure;
How we thought less of being fam'd in story,
And more of those to whom our fame gave pleasure.
Do you remember in far countries, weeping,
When a light breeze, a flower, hath brought to mind
Old happy thoughts, which till that hour were sleeping,
And made us yearn for those we left behind?
Do you remember this?

Do you remember when no sound 'woke gladly,
But desolate echoes through our home were ringing,
How for a while we talked—then paused full sadly,
Because our voices bitter thoughts were bringing?
Ah me! those days—those days! my friend, my brother,
Sit down and let us talk of all our woe,
For we have nothing left but one another;—
Yet where they went, old playmate, we shall go—
Let us remember this.

DESCRIPTION OF A LOST FRIEND.

[_]

FROM THE MORNING POST.

Lost near the 'Change in the city,
(I saw there a girl that seemed pretty)
‘Joe Steel,’ a short, cross-looking varlet,
With a visage as red as scarlet:
His nose and chin of a hue
Approaching nearly to blue:
With legs just the length, and no more,
That will trot him from door to door;
And a most capacious paunch,
Fed with many a venison haunch.
Whoever will bring the same
To a tailor's of the name
Of Patterson, Watson, and Co.,
Shall receive a guinea or so.
And that all may understand,
And bring him safe to hand,
I subjoin as well as I can,
The character of the man.

He's a grumpy sort of a fellow,
Till liquor has made him mellow;
The sort of man who never
Wishes your guests to be clever,
When he's asked to come and dine,
But only wants his wine.
He is but a stupid ass,
Even when he's filled his glass,
And emptied it too, a dozen
Times, with some civil cousin.
I don't remember his saying
Aught, that meant more than braying.
We met and we talked together
Of politics and the weather,
Of the taxes and the king,
And that silly sort of thing;
But he never would give an opinion
As to the sort of dominion
He should like to live under, if we
To think of such things were free.
He said it was all speculation,
More harm than good to the nation.
He wouldn't abuse the Commons,
Nor admire a pretty woman's
Ancle, that tripped thro' the park
When it wasn't light or dark.
Laugh at him—he turned sour;

Talk gravely—his brow would lower.
Sometimes he wished to grow fat,
(I'm sure it was needless, that)

When he was over-fed,
Or out of spirits, he said.
Sometimes he wished to be thin,
(When he poured fresh spirits in.)
But he never, when we were alone,
Said any thing new of his own.
The merrier you were, the more
He grumbled, and fumed, and swore;
The happier you were, the less
He cared for your happiness.
We never agreed for a day,
Except when one was away.
And meeting too often of late,
It was my peculiar fate
To say something bitter and bad
About wives being not to be had,
When a batchelor got a red nose,
And his short legs were shrunk in his hose—
It was witty; but cost me my friend:
For, being too late to amend,
He took it amiss that I
The defects of his form should spy.
Perchance he had borne a few jeers
On the purple hue of his ears,
But to say that his legs were small!
Oh! his heart's blood was turned to gall.
So leaving his bottle, he swore
That he never would enter my door.
And I chuckled within my own heart,
Snapped my fingers, and saw him depart.

But, alas! now I've lost him, I find
There was no one so much to my mind,
I have now got a good-tempered fellow,
But he tells me my face is grown yellow.
I've got a new friend that is clever,
But he's brewing his good things for ever:
Another, who talks at a rate
That is frightful, of church and of state,
And never will give in a jot,
Tho' you reason and bawl till you're hot:
Another—but why should I bring
Of friends, as of onions, a string
To my dinners, except that I feel
No number can make a Joe Steel!
When they're lively, I think it a bore;
When they're silent, I miss him the more.
I miss him when I would recall
Some fact of my youth to them all.
Not one of my friends seems to care
If I once had a head of black hair—
Not one of them seems to believe
How the pretty girls once used to grieve
When they missed me amongst them,—Oh! no,
I can have no friend equal to Joe!—
I miss his round, red, surly face—
I miss his short legs from their place—
I miss him—I'm growing quite sad;
I think my old port is turned bad—
I miss him, and draw this conclusion,
(Tho' others may think it delusion)

That, with all their worst faults at their back,
(And I'm sure poor Joe Steel had a pack)
Tho' they never can alter or mend;
There's no friend like a very old friend!

RECOLLECTIONS OF A FADED BEAUTY.

Ah! I remember when I was a girl
How my hair naturally used to curl,
And how my aunt four yards of net would pucker,
And call the odious thing, ‘Diana's tucker.’
I hated it, because although, you see,
It did for her, it didn't do for me.
(Popkins said I should wear a low corsage,
But this I know was merely badinage.)
I recollect the gaieties of old—
Ices when hot, and punch when we were cold!
Race-balls, and county-balls, and balls where you,
For seven shillings, got dance and supper too.
Oh! I remember all the routs and plays—
“But words are idle,” as Lord Byron says;
And so am I, and therefore can spare time,
To put my recollections into rhyme.
I recollect the man who did declare
When I was at the fair, myself was fair:
(I had it in my album for three years,
And often looked, and shed delicious tears.)

I didn't fall in love, however, then,
Because I never saw that man again.
And I remember Popkins—ah! too well!
And all who once in love with Chloë fell.
They called me Chloë, for they said my grace
Was nymph-like, as was also half my face.
My mouth was wide, but then I had a smile
Which might a demon of its tears beguile.—
As Captain Popkins said, or rather swore,
He liked me, (ah! my Popkins!) all the more.
He couldn't bear a little mouth, for when
It laughed, 'twas like a long slit in a pen;
Or button-hole stretched on too big a button;
Or little cut for gravy in boiled mutton.
(Popkins was clever)—but I must proceed
More regularly, that my friends may read.
I didn't marry, for I couldn't get
A man I liked; I havn't got one yet;
But I had handsome lovers by the score:
Alas! alas! I always sighed for more.

First came young Minton, of the ninth Hussars,
His eyes were bright and twinkling as the stars.
There was, indeed, a little little cast,
But he assured me that it would not last;
And only came, when he, one cold bivouac,
Gazed on the foe, and could not turn it back—
The chill was so intense! Poor Minton, I
Really did think he certainly would die.

He gave me of himself a little print;
The painter did not see or heed the squint.
Squint it was not—but one eye sought the other
With tenderness, as 'twere a young twin brother.
He gave it, and he sighed: oh! often after
The memory of that sigh hath chill'd my laughter,
I'm sure I might have married him, but then
I never did enough encourage men:
And somehow he made love to Anna Budge;
I never owed the ugly minx a grudge,
Though, God knows, she was cross and plain enough.
The things he us'd to say to her—such stuff!

Then came young Frederic Mortimer de Veaux:
A cruel, faithless wretch, that work'd me woe.
But such a man! so tall, so straight—he took
A lady's heart away at every look.
Such a hooked nose, such loads of curly hair—
Such a pale, wild, intense, Byronic air;
And his whole soul, (as he himself has said,)
“Wandering about among the mighty dead.”
He had read books, and rather liked to show it,
And always spoke like an inspired poet.
Last time we met, my heart prophetic drew
A mournful omen from his wild adieu:
I wrote it down, when he had closed the door.
All I remembered—would it had been more!—
“Allah hu! shall I ever behold thee again,
Sweet cause of my transport—dear cause of my pain?

Al, hamdu il Illah! what place can be fair,
My Rose of the Desert, if thou art not there?
Yet I go—for stern duty compels me to do so—
From the world where my heart is, like far-banished Crusoe.
Gul's gardens invite me, but Fate says, depart,
Bismillah! farewell, young Haidee of my heart!”
Was it not beautiful? it was—ah, me!—
Who would have thought such lips could traitors be?
Who could have thought, who saw his bright eye burn,
He spoke—intending never to return?

Then Mr. Humley asked aunt's leave to wed,
And winked, and asked if love was in my head,
Or heart; and then proceeding things to settle,
(Helping my aunt the while to lift the kettle,)—
Said, “you shall have a cozy home, my dear,
And fifty pounds (to buy you clothes) a year.
And we must get your aunt, or some kind fairy
To teach you how to churn and mind the dairy.”
‘A cozy home!’ why, did one ever hear
Of such a man? and, to call me “my dear:”
Me—I was Frederick Mortimer's heart's Haidee;
Young Minton's star of hope and gladness—me!
But I refused him; though my aunt did say
“That it was an advantage thrown away;”—
(He an advantage!)—“that she'd make me rue it—
Make me a nun—” I'd like to see her do it!

Down, down, rebellious heart! I am a nun,
At least, the same as if I had been one.
I do repent I thought myself too comely;
I do repent I am not Mrs. Humley!

Then, cold and cautious, came young Archy Campbell.
Full many a sunset walk, and pleasant ramble,
I took with him; but I grew weary soon,
Because, instead of turning from the moon
To gaze on me, he bade me look with him,
And wondered when her light would grow more dim,
And the world fade away. I should have tired
Before our honey-moon had half expired.

Oh! loved when first I met thee, and for ever,
Thou, from whom cold caprice hath made me sever—
Where art thou, Popkins?—Captain Popkins! oh!
Dear recollection and delicious woe!
Most generous, most genteel. Oh! thou, alas!
“Of the best class, and better than thy class,”
Where art thou? Ah! it matters not to me;
By Chloë's side thou never more shall be!
How sweetly didst thou sing ‘Those Evening Bells’—
Still the dear echo in my bosom swells:
How gaily didst thou dance, how clearly whistle!
How neatly fold each elegant epistle!
How thin thy pumps were, and how bright thy boot,
('Twas that brought “Warren's blacking” in repute.)

How nameless was thy majesty of form,
Making each man look like a wriggling worm,
That dared beside thy shoulders' broad expanse
To venture his lank shape. By what sweet chance
Did all, that would have been defects in others,
(Whom yet you deemed your fellow-men and brothers,)
Turn to perfection when beheld in you;
Tho' short, yet graceful; fat, but active too!

He wrote, adored, proposed—but some curst power
Bade me nip off his young Hope's budding flower:
I did not even answer that sweet letter,
Because I thought; perhaps, I'd get a better.
Oh! Chloë, tear thy hair, and beat thy breast;
How couldst thou get a better than the best?
'Tis over now—the agony, despair,
With which I beat that breast, and tore that hair;
When one unmeaning note of cold adieu,
Mixed with reproach, was all my silence drew.
Gone, and for ever!—I could scarce believe it:
Surely he wrote, and I did not receive it!
Vain hope! he went—he was my heart's one love;
All other men, all other loves, above.
I would have married him without a penny,
Each lover after him was one too many!

There was a certain Irishman, indeed,
Who borrowed Cupid's darts to make me bleed.

My aunt said he was vulgar; he was poor,
And his boots creaked, and dirtied her smooth floor.
She hated him; and when he went away,
He wrote—I have the verses to this day:—

Wirasthru! then, my beautiful jewel,
I'm quite tired out of my life.
I can't fight with Fortune a duel,
I cannot have you for a wife.
The beauties of nature adorning
No longer afford me delight:
In the night, och! I wish it were morning,
In the morning I wish it were night!

For your aunt, she has writ me a letter,
(Och, den, she's a sad dirty rogue!)
Does she think other men love you better,
Becase I've a bit of the brogue?
In regard to the fighting and swearing,
Sure, jewel, it's all for the best;
Just to drown all the grumbling and tearing,
That gives my poor stomach no rest.

Small work I've had late at the carvin',
Less than none I can't have, any how;
And he wouldn't deny, when he's starvin',
Your Danny a bit of a row?

Then, good night to you, love, or good morrow;
Sure, it's all just the same which I say,
For the differ is small, to my sorrow,
When one gets neither breakfast, nor tay!

Now was this vulgar, which was ‘said or sung?’
Or but the ling'ring of his native tongue
In ears which thought it music; being such
As he had known in childhood's early years,
What time we suffer little, and hope much;
And oft turn back to gaze upon with tears!
I liked him, and I liked his verses; but
In some vile squabble, as to where he put
His walking-stick, and whether sticks were stronger
For being cut on Irish ground, or longer,
He lost his life; and I my last real love:
For though a few still round me used to rove,
Whether they had not half his sense and merit—
I never have loved since with any spirit!

BABEL.

Know ye in ages past that tower
By human hands built strong and high?
Arch over arch, with magic power,
Rose proudly each successive hour,
To reach the happy sky.

It rose, till human pride was crushed—
Quick came the unexpected change;
A moment every tone was hushed,
And then again they freely gushed,
But sounded wild and strange.

Loud, quick, and clear, each voice was heard,
Calling for lime, and stone, and wood,
All uttered words—but not one word;
More than the carol of a bird,
Their fellows understood.

Is there no Babel but that one,
The storied tower of other days?—
Where, round the giant pile of stone,
Pausing they stood—their labour done,
To listen in amaze.

Fair springs the tower of hope and fame,
When all our life is fairy land;
Till, scarcely knowing what to blame,
Our fellows cease to feel the same—
We cease to understand.

Then, when they coldly smile to hear
The burning dreams of earlier days;
The rapid fall from hope to fear,
When eyes whose every glance was dear,
Seem changing as they gaze:

Then, when we feel 'twere vain to speak
Of fervent hopes—aspirings high—
Of thoughts for which all words are weak—
Of wild far dreams, wherein we seek
Knowledge of earth and sky:

Of communings with nature's God,
When impulse deep the soul hath moved—
Of tears which sink within the sod,
Where, mingling with the valley clod,
Lies something we have loved:

Then cometh ours;—and better theirs—
Of stranger tongues together brought,
Than that in which we all have shares,
A Babel in a world of cares—
Of feeling and of thought!

THE MOURNERS.

Low she lies, who blest our eyes
Through many a sunny day;
She may not smile, she will not rise—
The life hath past away!
Yet there is a world of light beyond,
Where we neither die nor sleep—
She is there, of whom our souls were fond—
Then wherefore do we weep?

The heart is cold, whose thoughts were told
In each glance of her glad bright eye;
And she lies pale, who was so bright,
She scarce seemed made to die.
Yet we know that her soul is happy now,
Where the saints their calm watch keep;
That angels are crowning that fair young brow—
Then wherefore do we weep?

Her laughing voice made all rejoice,
Who caught the happy sound;
There was gladness in her very step,
As it lightly touched the ground.
The echoes of voice and step are gone;
There is silence still and deep:
Yet we know she sings by God's bright throne—
Then wherefore do we weep?

The ckeek's pale tinge, the lid's dark fringe,
That lies like a shadow there,
Were beautiful in the eyes of all—
And her glossy golden hair!
But though that lid may never wake
From its dark and dreamless sleep,
She is gone where young hearts do not break—
Then wherefore do we weep?

That world of light with joy is bright,
This is a world of woe:
Shall we grieve that her soul hath taken flight,
Because we dwell below?
We will bury her under the mossy sod,
And one long bright tress we'll keep;
We have only given her back to God—
Ah! wherefore do we weep?

THE CKOOKED SIXPENCE.

Take then back your foolish token,
Since it cannot change like you;
When I feel my heart is broken,
Shall it still proclaim you true?
When you gave it, you besought me
Never from that pledge to part:
If I am what then you thought me,
You have spurned an honest heart!

When, far hence, the boisterous billows
Rage upon the stormy deep;
And your landsmen press their pillows,
Careless how we sailors sleep:
Think how happy you had made him—
Think how grieved he was to part—
Who, though harshly you upbraid him,
Loved ye, with an honest heart!

Farewell, Nancy, but if ever
Eyes you love grow gloomy, then,
Oh! remember, though we sever
You have still a friend in Ben.
Yes, dear girl, he'll still defend you;
And some comfort 'twill impart,
Aid of any sort to lend you—
Though you broke an honest heart!

THE WANDERER LOOKING INTO OTHER HOMES.

A lone, wayfaring wretch I saw, who stood
Wearily pausing by the wicket gate;
And from his eyes there streamed a bitter flood,
Contrasting his with many a happier fate.
Bleak howled the wind, the sleety shower fell fast
On his bare head, and scanty-covered breast;
As through the village with quick step I past,
To find sweet shelter in my home of rest.

“Oh! that I too could call a home my own!”
Said the lone wanderer, as he wistful gazed
Through the clear lattice, on the hearth's wide stone,
Where cheerily the jocund fire blazed.
“Oh! that I too, in such a cot might dwell!
Where the bright homefire blazeth clear and high
Where joy alone my grateful heart might swell,
And children's children bless me when I die!”

Little he deemed what bitterness was there,
Who murmured thus his aspirations vain,—
Little he deemed that one as fond as fair
Lay faintly sighing on a bed of pain:
And by her side, a restless vigil keeping,
One who had deeply wronged that gentle heart—
Knelt with clasped hands; now praying, and now weeping;
Dreading, each hour, to see the soul depart.

They were two sisters jealous love had twained;
And one had slandered her who faded lay,
Because she deemed her slighted love disdained:
And he they both had loved was far away:
And from that hour, the younger drooped and pined,
Like a pale snowdrop bowing down her head;
Joyless of life—to slow disease resigned—
The heart within her was already dead.

Here, for her sake, they woo the mountain gale,
If, haply, change may yet prevent her fate.
But he, the wanderer, knew not of this tale,
And humbly sues admittance at their gate.
He enters, what hath met his eager eyes?
Pale as the white-fringed drapery spread beneath,
His early loved, his sorely slandered, lies,
Heaving with pain her faint and quickened breath.

O'er her soft arm her long, dark, glossy hair
Floats in unbraided beauty,—and her cheek,—
Ah, me! the deeply-crimsoned tinge is there,
That of sharp woe and early death doth speak.
How beautiful, beneath her drooping eye,
The glowing hectic of that cheek appears,
Where the long lashes like soft shadows lie,
Seeking in vain to prison back her tears.

She gazes—shrieks—'tis he! at length 'tis he,
Whom dreams and waking thoughts have brought in vain!
And must she die, e'er yet from sorrow free,
Her head hath rested on his heart again?
A few slow, bitter words of wild appeal—
Of earnest explanation faintly given—
A pressure, which his hand can scarcely feel,
And her freed soul is on its way to heaven!

So, wanderers in the world may pausing gaze
Upon some radiant form with smiles of light,
And seeing but the outward beam that plays,
Envy their joys—and deem that all is bright.
The homes of other hearts! oh! yet beware,
Ye, who with friendly guise would enter in,
Lest all be false,—and ye be doomed to share
Their guilt or woe—their sadness or their sin!

MARY.

Yes, we were happy once, and care
My jocund heart could ne'er surprise;
My treasures were, her golden hair,
Her ruby lips, her brilliant eyes.
My treasures were—alas! depart
Ye visions of what used to be!
Cursed be the heart—the cruel heart—
That stole my Mary's love from me.

Dark are my joyless days—and thou—
Dost thou too dream, and dreaming weep?
Or, careless of thy broken vow,
Unholy revels dost thou keep?
No, Mary, no,—we loved too well,
Such deep oblivion cannot be;
Cursed be the lips, where guile could dwell,
To lure thy love away from me!

It cannot be!—ah! haply, while
With wild reproach I greet thy name,
Thy ruby lip hath ceased to smile—
Thy happy head is bowed with shame!
Haply, with haggard want opprest,
Thou weepest where no eye may see;
Cursed be the spoiler's cruel breast—
But, oh! my Mary!—heaven shield thee!

THE RINGLET.

Oh! treasured thus by passion's slave,
Dear relic of the bygone year;
Say, what remains of her who gave?
The vain regret—the useless tear.
The clasping hands—the throbbing brow—
The murmuring of that shadowy word,
To which had answered once—oh! now,
Why is that light quick step unheard?

What in those syllables is found,
That such a start of woe can claim?
A word is but an empty sound,—
Alas! it is—it was—her name!
It was—yes, she was once! as gay,
As full of life, as aught that lives;
The breath—the life—hath passed away,
But not the pang her memory gives.

Bright tress! thy beauty bringeth now
A thousand dreams of rapture gone;
Her sunny eyes, her radiant brow,
The low, light laughter of her tone.
Gazing on thee, again she stands
Before me, as in days of old;
With all her young head's shining bands,
And all its wavy curls of gold.

Till as I view thee, silken tress,
I feel within my suffering heart,—
'Tis all which now my sight can bless,
All that of her will not depart.
Oh! thou that wert life's dearest prize,
That now art but a thought of pain;
Why do thy tones—thy laughing eyes—
Rise up to wring my soul again?

I roam in vain: the sun that beams
Is still the sun we looked upon;
My hand, my lonely hand, in dreams,
Seeks still for thine to clasp its own.
My heart resists all time—all change,
And finds no other form so dear.
My memory, wheresoe'er I range,
Clings to the spot where thou wert near.

Change! thou wert all life's scenery:
To me, the billowy, bounding wave—
The wide green earth—the far blue sky,
Form but the landscape of thy grave!

Oh! bitter is their boon of life
Who cannot hope—who may not die—
I linger in a world of strife,
Whilst thou art in the happy sky!
I envy thee the peace thou hast,
And, but 'tis sin, the knee would bow,
That He who made thee all thou wast,
Would make me all—that thou art now!

THE REBEL.

With none to heed or mark
The prisoner in his cell,
In a dungeon, lone and dark,
He tuned his wild farewell.
The harp whose strings might never breathe again
The joyous sounds it gave to Freedom's strain,
With hurried chords, his trembling fingers woke;
And thus the brave, but captive rebel spoke:—

Farewell! mine own dear land!
That I have loved thee well,
This faint, but blood-red hand,
These iron fetters tell:
And if I weep, it is not for the breeze,
At summer evenings whispered thro' the trees;
Though I would die to breathe that air again—
I weep, to think upon my country's chain!

Farewell to those I loved,
Whom I no more shall see;
And, oh! in sorrow proved
To those who once loved me,
With whom beneath the chesnut's spreading shade
In happy days of infancy, I played;
Who never more will hear the rebel's name
Without a blush, a crimson blush, of shame.

Oh! I am young to die,
Forsaken thus by all:
With none to hear me sigh,
With none to weep my fall.
How my heart yearns for joys for ever flown—
My mother's hand—my sister's gentle tone!
And wishes wild within my bosom swell,
In sorrow's broken tones to bid farewell!

Land of untrodden hills!
Where still, in happy dreams,
I hear the mountain rills,
Leap forth in gushing streams:
I love thee so, that fearfully I shrink
From death, whose power will burst each galling link;
And sigh to live, though life no more be free,
Lest, in the grave, I dream no more of thee!

THE LOST ONE.

Come to the grave—the silent grave! and dream
Of a light, happy voice—so full of joy,
That those who heard her laugh, would laugh again,
Echoing the mirth of such an innocent spirit;
And pause in their own converse, to look round,
Won by the witchery of that gleesome tone.
Come to the grave—the lone dark grave! and dream
Of eyes whose brilliancy was of the soul,
Eyes which, with one bright flash from their dark lids,
Seemed at a glance to read the thoughts of others;
Or, with a full entire tenderness,
The pure expression of all-perfect love,
(Of woman's love, which is for you alone,
While your's is for yourself)—gave in that look
The promise of a life of meek affection.
Come to the grave—the mouldering grave! and dream
Of a fair form that glided over earth
One of its happiest creatures:—to her cheek

The lightest word might bring the blushing blood
In pure carnation;—down her graceful neck,
The long rich curls of jet hung carelessly,
Untortured by the cunning hand of art:
And on her brow, bright purity and joy,
Twin sisters, sate,—as on a holy throne.
Come yet unto the grave—the still, damp grave!
And dream of a young heart that beat with life,
And all life's best affections; of a heart
Where sorrow never came, nor fear, nor sin—
Nor aught save innocence, and perfect love:
And, having dreamed of such a lovely being—
So gay, so bright, so pure, so fond, so meek—
Having thus conjured up a form of love
In thine own pausing and regretful mind;—
A vision will be present to thy soul,
A faint, but faithful portraiture, of one
Most dearly loved, and now for ever lost!

MY NATIVE LAND.

[_]

FROM THE GERMAN OF KÖRNER.

Where is the minstrel's native land?
Where the flames of light and feeling glow;
Where the flowers are wreathed for beauty's brow;
Where the bounding heart swells strong and high,
With holy hopes which may not die—
There is my native land!

What is that bright land's music name?
Ere it bent its neck to a foreign yoke,
It was called the land of the broad strong oak—
The land of the free—the German land—
But her sons lie slain by the stranger's hand,
And she weeps sad tears of shame.

Why does the minstrel's country weep?
That the hurricane's rage hath bowed the pride
Of those who should stem the rising tide;

That her princes quail—and that none will hear
Her holy words of might and fear—
Therefore my land must weep!

To whom does the minstrel's country call?
It calls to the silent heavenly powers,
With despair, as the thunder darkly lowers,
For its freedom—for those who should break its chain—
For the hand that never strikes in vain—
To these doth my country call!

For what does the minstrel's country sigh?
That the bloodhound may hunt beyond the bound
Of the soil which brave hearts make holy ground;
That the serf may cease; and our sons be free,
Or those who have borne them, cease to be—
For this does my country sigh!

And still doth the minstrel's country hope?
Her hope is firm, for her cause is good—
That her brave will rise, and her true in blood;
And that God the avenger, our fathers' God,
Will mark the tears that bedew her sod—
Such is my country's hope!

DREAMS.

Surely I heard a voice—surely my name
Was breathed in tones familiar to my heart!
I listened—and the low wind stealing came,
In darkness and in silence to depart.

Surely I saw a form, a proud bright form,
Standing beside my couch! I raised mine eyes:
'Twas but a dim cloud, herald of a storm,
That floated through the grey and twilight skies.

Surely the brightness of the summer hour
Hath suddenly burst upon the circling gloom!
I dream; 'twas but the perfume of a flower,
Which the breeze wafted through the silent room.

Surely a hand clasped mine with greetings fond!
A name is murmured by my lips with pain;
Woe for that sound—woe for love's broken bond.
I start—I wake—I am alone again!

WOULD I WERE WITH THEE!

Would I were with thee! every day and hour
Which now I spend so sadly, far from thee—
Would that my form possessed the magic power
To follow where my heavy heart would be!
Whate'er thy lot—by land or sea—
Would I were with thee—eternally!

Would I were with thee! when, the world forgetting,
Thy weary limbs upon the turf are thrown,—
While bright and red the evening sun is setting,
And all thy thoughts belong to heaven alone:
While happy dreams thy heart employ—
Would I were with thee—in thy joy!

Would I were with thee! when, no longer feigning
The hurried laugh that stifles back a sigh!

Thy young lip pours unheard its sweet complaining,
And tears have quenched the light within thine eye:
When all seems dark and sad below,
Would I were with thee—in thy woe!

Would I were with thee! when the day is breaking,
And when the moon hath lit the lonely sea—
Or when in crowds some careless note awaking:
Speaks to thy heart in memory of me.
In joy or pain, by sea or shore—
Would I were with thee—evermore!

THE NAME.

“What's in a name?” —Shakspeare.”

Thy name was once the magic spell, by which my thoughts were bound,
And burning dreams of light and love were wakened by that sound;
My heart beat quick when stranger tongues, with idle praise or blame,
Awoke its deepest thrill of life, to tremble at that name.

Long years—long years have passed away, and altered is thy brow;
And we who met so gladly once, must meet as strangers now:
The friends of yore come round me still, but talk no more of thee;
'Tis idle ev'n to wish it now—for what art thou to me?

Yet still thy name, thy blessed name, my lonely bosom fills,
Like an echo that hath lost itself among the distant hills,
Which still, with melancholy note, keeps faintly lingering on,
When the jocund sound that woke it first is gone—for ever gone.

THE FAITHLESS KNIGHT.

The lady she sate in her bower alone,
And she gaz'd from the lattice window high,
Where a white steed's hoofs were ringing on,
With a beating heart, and a smother'd sigh.
Why doth she gaze thro' the sunset rays—
Why doth she watch that white steed's track—
While a quivering smile on her red lip plays?
'Tis her own dear knight—will he not look back?

The steed flew fast—and the rider past—
Nor paus'd he to gaze at the lady's bower;
The smile from her lip is gone at last—
There are tears on her cheek—like the dew on a flower!
And “plague on these foolish tears,” she said,
“Which have dimm'd the view of my young love's track;
For oh! I am sure, while I bent my head,
It was then—it was then that my knight look'd back.”

On flew that steed with an arrow's speed;
He is gone—and the green boughs wave between:
And she sighs, as the sweet breeze sighs through a reed,
As she watches the spot where he last has been.
Oh! many a sun shall rise and set,
And many an hour may she watch in vain,
And many a tear shall that soft cheek wet,
Ere that steed and its rider return again!

FIRST LOVE.

Yes, I know that you once were my lover,
But that sort of thing has an end,
And though love and its transports are over,
You know you can still be—my friend:
I was young, too, and foolish, remember;
(Did you ever hear John Hardy sing?)
It was then, the fifteenth of November,
And this is the end of the spring!

You complain that you are not well-treated
By my suddenly altering so;
Can I help it?—you're very conceited,
If you think yourself equal to Joe.
Don't kneel at my feet, I implore you;
Don't write on the drawings you bring;
Don't ask me to say, “I adore you,”
For, indeed, it is now no such thing.

100

I confess, when at Bognor we parted,
I swore that I worshipped you then—
That I was a maid broken-hearted,
And you the most charming of men.
I confess, when I read your first letter,
I blotted your name with a tear—
But, oh! I was young—knew no better,
Could I tell that I'd meet Hardy here?

How dull you are grown! how you worry,
Repeating my vows to be true—
If I said so, I told you a story,
For I love Hardy better than you!
Yes! my fond heart has fixed on another,
(I sigh so whenever he's gone,)
I shall always love you—as a brother,
But my heart is John Hardy's alone.

101

EDWARD.

Heavy is my trembling heart, mine own love, my dearest,
Heavy as the hearts whose love is poured in vain;
All the bright day I watch till thou appearest,
All the long night I dream of thee again.
When the whisp'ring summer breeze is waving o'er me lightly,
When the moaning winter winds their wail of sadness make;
Then dearest, then, thine image riseth brightly,
I am weary of my life, for Edward's sake.

When in the halls of light, all bright and happy faces,
Smiling turn to greet a friend, and wander on
Far through the distant crowd, my heart thy proud form traces,
My eye is sadly fixed on thee alone.

102

When that dear, familiar voice, some careless word hath spoken,
When thy brow a moment bends, a cold farewell to take;
Then, dearest, then, my heart is well nigh broken,
I am weary of my life, for Edward's sake.

Oh, Edward! dark my doom!—this heart will love for ever,
Though thou wilt never share its joy or pain,
Thine eye will turn to mine, and meet its glance, but never
Beam fondly back on hers who loves in vain.
But when weary life is o'er, and in the grave I'm lying,
(Silently a woman's heart should hide its love and break;)
Then, dearest, then, some voice shall tell thee, sighing,
How weary was my life to me, for Edward's sake.

103

THE ARAB'S FAREWELL TO HIS HORSE.

My beautiful! my beautiful! that standest meekly by
With thy proudly arched and glossy neck, and dark and fiery eye;
Fret not to roam the desert now, with all thy winged speed—
I may not mount on thee again—thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!
Fret not with that impatient hoof—snuff not the breezy wind—
The further that thou fliest now, so far am I behind;
The stranger hath thy bridle rein—thy master hath his gold—
Fleet-limbed and beautiful! farewell!—thou'rt sold, my steed—thou'rt sold!

Farewell! those free untired limbs, full many a mile must roam,
To reach the chill and wintry sky, which clouds the stranger's home;

104

Some other hand, less fond, must now thy corn and bed prepare;
The silky mane I braided once, must be another's care!
The morning sun shall dawn again, but never more with thee
Shall I gallop through the desert paths, where we were wont to be:
Evening shall darken on the earth; and o'er the sandy plain
Some other steed, with slower step, shall bear me home again.

Yes, thou must go! the wild free breeze, the brilliant sun and sky,
The master's home—from all of these, my exiled one must fly.
Thy proud dark eye will grow less proud, thy step become less fleet,
And vainly shalt thou arch thy neck, thy master's hand to meet.
Only in sleep shall I behold that dark eye, glancing bright
Only in sleep shall hear again that step so firm and light:
And when I raise my dreaming arm to check or cheer thy speed,
Then must I starting wake, to feel—thou'rt sold, my Arab steed!

105

Ah! rudely then, unseen by me, some cruel hand may chide,
Till foam-wreaths lie, like crested waves, along thy panting side:
And the rich blood, that is in thee swells, in thy indignant pain,
Till careless eyes, which rest on thee, may count each started vein.
Will they ill-use thee? If I thought—but no, it cannot be—
Thou art so swift, yet easy curbed; so gentle, yet so free.
And yet, if haply when thou'rt gone, my lonely heart should yearn—
Can the hand which casts thee from it now, command thee to return?

Return!—alas! my Arab steed! what shall thy master do,
When thou who wert his all of joy, has vanished from his view?
When the dim distance cheats mine eye, and through the gath'ring tears
Thy bright form, for a moment, like the false mirâge appears,
Slow and unmounted will I roam, with weary foot alone,
Where with fleet step, and joyous bound, thou oft hast borne me on;

106

And, sitting down by that green well, I'll pause and sadly think,
“It was here he bowed his glossy neck, when last I saw him drink!”

When last I saw thee drink!—away! the fevered dream is o'er—
I could not live a day, and know, that we should meet no more!
They tempted me, my beautiful! for hunger's power is strong—
They tempted me, my beautiful! but I have loved too long.
Who said that I had given thee up? Who said that thou wert sold?
'Tis false—'tis false, my Arab steed! I fling them back their gold!
Thus, thus, I leap upon thy back, and scour the distant plains;
Away! who overtakes us now, shall claim thee for his pains!

107

LINDA ALHAYA.

Slow rippling in the zephyr's breath,
The murmuring waters flow beneath;
Warm glows the sun—sweet breathes the air:
Why are these scenes, though bright and fair,
To me a dreary wilderness?
Linda Alhaya! canst thou guess?

Why do I gaze on flowerets blue
Which rival heaven's own matchless hue,
And wander by their native stream,
Though it to other eyes may seem
Unworthy of my constancy?
Linda Alhaya! tell me why?

Why do I gaze on them and smile,
Then sit me down, and weep awhile?

108

Sadly, but fond, as they recalled
Something which held my heart enthralled:
Then slowly wend my weary way—
Linda Alhaya! canst thou say?

Linda Alhaya hears me not—
Linda Alhaya has forgot
That e'er her starry path I crossed,
Where every end but joy was lost.
And hast thou lost all thought of me,
Linda Alhaya? can it be?

Not so have I of thee, sweet maid—
Deep in my heart my love is laid;
Scentless and whithered each flower to me—
Leafless and scathed each towering tree:
Oh, Linda Alhaya, canst thou not guess?
Thou wert my rose of the wilderness!

Linda Alhaya! those flowerets blue
Match not thine eye's soft liquid hue,
But they the self-same language hold,
Waving above those waters cold;
And as we parted on this spot,
They said “Farewell, forget me not!”

109

Those flowers may bud, and bloom, and die,
Above the brook that wanders by;
And while they live, their blossoms seem
Reflected in its silver stream;
But when rude Time the buds shall sever,
Their images are fled for ever.

Oh! thus shall it never be with me
While I have breath and memory;
The stream of life may swell its tide—
Thy image still secure will bide!
My faithful heart in death shall tell,
Linda Alhaya, I loved thee well.

Linda Alhaya (literally,) a pretty jewel.

111

LE RANZ DES VACHES.

TRANSLATION.

When will that day of sunshine dawn for me
When I the objects of my love shall see?
Our purling rills,
Our homes of ease,
Our tow'ring hills,
Our leafy trees;
And her, the pride of hill or dell,
My gentle blue-eyed Isabel?
Beneath the elm that shades the flow'ry plain,
When shall I dance to shepherd's reed again?

When will that day of sunshine dawn for me
When I the objects of my love shall see?
My father dear,
And gentle mother,
My sister fair,
And thee, my brother;
My playful lambs, that know my voice,
And at the well-known sound rejoice;
My goats, that round me in wild gambols played,
And thee, my life, my bride, my village maid?

112

CHE DI VOS E DI ME DIRAN?

[_]

FROM THE SPANISH.

What will they say of me, my love,
What will they say of you?
When they see thine eyes' bright loving glance,
And mine replying too?

Fear not, my love—they'll say of me,
That vainly earthly suns may rise
When sunshine beams so radiantly
From the blue heaven of those eyes:
They'll say of thee, that thou wert sent
Here on this darkling earth to roam,
To win, by beauty's blandishment
Weak mortals to thine angel home.

But what, love, will they say of you,
What will they say of me,
When in my evening bower they find
None save my heart and thee?

113

Fear not, my love, what tongues may dare—
Of me the world can only say
That while such twilight waits me there,
I need not wish for brighter day.
Of thee they'll say, the silver chords
With which thy fairy harp is strung,
Were breathed on by a spirit's words;
And keep the notes that spirit sung.

But oh! what will they say of you—
What can they say of me,
Should I at length become your bride,
As I have vowed to be?

Fear not, my love: they'll say that I
Can never more have wish or prayer;
That having thee, until I die
No thought is left that claims a care;
Of thee they'll say—to speed the tale
In vain was speech to mortals given;
For what may tongues and words avail
When hearts and looks are all our heaven!

114

VERDAD! VERDAD!

[_]

FROM THE SPANISH.

Luida! I never thought, I own,
When some proved false that so would you;
That e'en your heart would turn to stone,
And throw me off—not true—not true.

'Twas all your fault—you kept away
With fairer, newer loves to range;
And I wept all the summer's day
To think a youth like you could change.

True—true—I fled th' enchanting lyre,
The thrilling voice—the notes I knew,
Because another dared aspire
To win your heart—not true! not true!

With eyes averted all the while,
You stood in gloomy silence there;

115

The words which meant to win my smile,
Unheard, were wand'ring on the air.

True—true—I own I turned away,
Because your eyes, on others bent,
Seemed fraught with many a lightning ray
To blast the hopes your smile had lent.

Not true! it is not true—my eyes
Were filled with tears for your neglect;
If you think they are sunny skies,
From others what can you expect?

True, true—you were a little mov'd,
Nor smiled on those who came to woo;
But none like me have ever lov'd;
Forgive, and say 'tis true, 'tis true!

116

THE ONE YOU LOVED THE BEST.

Oh! love—love well, but only once! for never shall the dream
Of youthful hope return again on life's dark rolling stream—
No love can match the early one which young affection nurs'd;
Oh, no—the one you love the best, is she you loved the first.

Once lost—that gladsome vision past—a fairer form may rise,
And eyes whose lustre mocks the light of starry southern skies,
But vainly seek you to enshrine the charmer in your breast,
For still the one you loved the first, is she you loved the best.

117

Again—'tis gone—'tis past away—those gentle tones and looks
Have vanished like the feathery snow in summer's running brooks;
With weary pinions wandering love forsakes the heart, his nest,
And fain would rest again with her whom first you loved, and best.

Perchance some faithful one is found, when love's romance is o'er,
With her you safe through storms may glide, to reach life's farthest shore;
But all too cold and real now you deem your home of rest,
And you sigh for her you loved the first—for her you loved the best.

118

TO ------.

Oh! could I come when fays have power,
And Sleep o'er mortals holds her sway,
There, in that silent moonlight hour,
I'd steal thy fickle heart away;
I'd bear it far, where none might see,
True constancy from mine to learn;
And still, while it remained with me,
'Twould be a pledge for thy return.

But oh! where shall I seek that heart
Which thousands claim, but none may keep?
The gift which daylight sees depart,
Is it resumed before thy sleep?
Shall I seek out each beauteous maid
Who o'er thee held a transient sway?
In vain—where'er thy heart was laid,
Her tears have washed the trace away.

119

Then must I sit within my bower,
Unwitting where the prize to find,
And smile as each successive hour
Sees changing still thy wavering mind;
And still repeat the wish in vain,
That thou wouldst live for me alone—
Or that to ease each maiden's pain
Thy cruel power to please were gone.

120

I WOULD THE WORLD WERE MINE.

Oh! I would the world were all mine own,
With its gay green fields and its rosy bowers,
And its drooping trees, where I alone
Might gather the buds that first were blown,
And weave a thousand fairy bowers
For thee—for thee!

Oh! I would the world were mine, with all
Its changeful skies which the soft stars beam in!
No scorching rays of the sun should fall,
But it should be to me, to all,
A moonlight world for Love to dream in
Of thee—of thee!

Oh! I would the world were mine, for then
I'd still the waves of the boundless ocean,
And swiftly I'd fly from the haunts of men
In some fairy bark which returned again
The dark blue water's rippling motion,
With thee—with thee!

121

Oh! would that the world indeed could be
All, all my own—'twould then be thine!
Thy heart were world enough for me,
And to gain it I'd give the earth and sea—
Oh! worlds on worlds, if they were mine—
To thee—to thee!

122

TO A BLIND CHILD.

Thou wreck of human hopes! whose darkened eyes
No more behold the blue and sunny skies,
Doomed in thy joyous childhood's early day
Blindly to grope along thy cheerless way;
Ere yet the bitter tear of sorrow streaming
Had clouded those sweet orbs, or dimmed their beaming,
It was foretold that fate—and now, alas!
The awful prophecy hath come to pass.
Oh, thou unhappy! in thy infant hours
How glad thy parents watch'd thy dawning powers;
O'er thy young innocence enraptured hung,
Praised the soft murm'ring accents of thy tongue,
And guessed thy meaning, not from words alone,
But from the speaking orbs that brightly shone—
That glorious feature of the human face,
That silent language nothing can replace.
They watched, as slowly stealing, ray by ray,
That gentle light was fading fast away;
And wept, in sad and hopeless agony,
O'er the dimmed glance of thy half-conscious eye.

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At length it ceased, and darkness then dwelt there,
Unbroken—cheerless—deep as their despair!
Mournful, expressionless, they turn to those
Who watched with rapture once their lids unclose;
And from those darkened orbs is slowly stealing
The only trace now left of earthly feeling,
A tear—a silent tear, condemned to flow
For vanished joys, or years of future woe.
Oh! far more moving is that look to me
Than all the supplicating agony—
The pearly drops that fall from Beauty's eyes,
Her bursting sobs, her low and melting sighs.
Mourners there be of whom we soothe the pain,
And, where we pity, pity not in vain;
But here there is a look which seems to say,
Thou canst do nought for me—we turn away,
Sick at the heart. O thou lamented one!
Perchance long years are thine to spend alone!
No gladsome child shall frolic by thy side,
Thy feeble age some stranger hand shall guide;
Or faithful dog, with dumb, imploring glance,
Collect the half-reluctant alms:—perchance,
Wandering and weary, thou shalt lay thy head
In the poor shelter of some ruined shed;
Or rest thy worn-out form beneath a tree,
While darken o'er thee skies thou canst not see—
While dreadful night the trembling world enshrouds,
And the hoarse thunder struggles through the clouds,
Then, while the bitter blast is howling round,
Defenceless thou shalt stretch thee on the ground;

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And cowering by his helpless master's side,
Like thee forsaken, and all help denied,
The sole companion of thy cheerless track
Shake the cold raindrops from his shivering back,
And shrinking, shuddering, of the storm afraid,
Seek aid from thee—thou canst not give him aid.
In such an hour, perchance, thou'lt breathe thy last,
Thy dirge the moaning of the wintry blast!
Shield, shield his houseless head, all-pitying Heaven!
When far in eddying rounds the snow is driven!
Whom man neglects, stretch thou thy hand to save,
Protect the transient life thy mercy gave;
Let him not die, nor leave one friend behind
To echo those sad words—“Pity the poor old blind!”

125

FAREWELL!

Farewell! in tearless agony I part!
Beloved, the pang can cost thee little now;
The thought of triumph dwells within thy heart,
The smile of triumph plays around thy brow.

But oh! when that is gone, when Time hath dimmed,
(If Time must dim) the glories of thine eye;
When the full cup of joy, which now is brimmed,
Drained by thine eager spirit, shall be dry;

When snows have mingled in the locks of youth,
And passion's power no more thy heart can warm;
Where the cold world shines forth in sorrow's truth,
And life itself is but a broken charm;

When the bright sun which gilds thy day is set,
A star's faint lustre may resume its reign;
I am contented that thou should'st forget—
All love thee now, but I will love thee then.

126

STANZAS.

Yes, I am gay and smiling now,
But little dost thou know
How oft a light and careless brow
Is darkened o'er by woe.

The giddy word, the laughing eye,
Which would the truth disown,
Are changed for many a bitter sigh,
When the world hath left me lone.

The green and flowery blooming sod,
Where the sun is smiling still,
Touched by a peasant's hazel rod,
Reveals the secret rill.

A child may chance that spring to wake
Which hath been sealed for years;
And random words the heart will break
That hides a fount of tears.

127

TO THE NURSERY.

Thou scene of infant joys and transient woe!
Once more I tread thee, where I stood, a boy;
And, spite of years gone by, I feel a glow
Which for a moment grief cannot destroy.

Once more upon my heart, and in my ear,
The joyous, laughing, silvery voices come;
The young, the thoughtless, to each other dear,
And all the blest realities of home.

But soon, alas! the gladsome visions fly,
I feel, I feel, that now I stand alone;
And, bursting from my heart, a deep-drawn sigh
Invokes the silence for an answering tone.

Deserted spot! those sad and dreary walls
But echo now the slow and sorrowing tread
Of some young mournful one, whose footstep falls
Pausingly, as he muses on the dead.

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Cold whistling o'er the black and cheerless grate,
The moaning wind alone is heard aloud,
Making the silence yet more desolate,
Where once gay voices raised a cheerful sound.

No busy finger now with figures quaint
Adorns the falling paper of the room;
No youthful artist's brightly-coloured paint
Relieves the dark and shadowy walls from gloom.

No—they are gone! each on his separate road!
Their days of happy infancy are o'er;
And one hath sought the long and last abode
Where sorrow harms and sin can blight no more.

Yes—they are gone! the beautiful—the young—
To roam the stranger land or stormy wave;
The happiest now of that once blissful throng,
He who is sleeping in the quiet grave!

And the remainder—they may meet again—
Again may hearts and hands in love be twined—
But never more so free from guilt and pain
As when they parted, leaving home behind.

Such is man's fate—so, for a little hour,
Together the young flowers may bud and blow—
Till Time's rude hand, and death's remorseless power,
Scatter the shrubs, and lay the blossoms low!

129

Then wherefore mourn when days and months are fled?
Why wish a life of bitterness to last?
Since every year that flits above our head
But adds a link of sorrow to the past!

130

THE HEART'S WRECK.

The lulling winds may still the sea,
All beautiful in its repose;
And with a soft tranquillity
The rippling water ebbs and flows.

But when the tempests wildly blow,
Its bosom heaves with many a wreck
Which, till that moment, slept below,
Nor dimmed its surface with a speck.

So I can talk, and laugh, and seem
All that the happiest souls could be;
Lulled for a moment, by some dream,
Soft as the sunset on the sea.

But when a word, a tone, reminds
My bosom of its perished love,
Oh! fearful are the stormy winds
Which dash the heart's wild wrecks above!

131

One after one they rise again,
And o'er dark memory's ocean steal,
Floating along, through years of pain—
Such as the heart-struck only feel!

132

THE BIRTH-DAY.

This is thy birth-day! when we should be gay;
Shall we go out before the glowing noon,
And weave the lingering flowers of parting May
With the first rosebuds of voluptuous June?
Shall we congratulate the laughing earth
That once again the perfumed spring is come—
Her joyous child, who heralded thy birth,
And made one long glad summer of thy home?

This is thy birth-day! thine, who wert so loved!
Who wert—my Gilderoy! what art thou now?
Have the slight cares and sorrows thou hast proved
Hallowed thy cheek, or darkened o'er thy brow?
Fond hearts are beating in thy quiet home;
Awake, thou sleeper! 'tis a day of joy,
Where all is gladness, surely thou wilt come—
Why art thou silent still, my Gilderoy?

133

This is thy birth-day! thine, who wert so young,
So full of life, so graceful, and so gay;
Why is the bitter tear of anguish wrung
From eyes which were not wont to weep to-day?
Smile on us now, as in the days of yore,
When friends stood round to hail another year—
Alas! the lip we loved shall smile no more!
This is thy birth-day—but thou art not here!

134

MARRIAGE AND LOVE.

The poorest peasant of the meanest soil,
The child of poverty, and heir to toil,
Early, from radiant love's impartial light,
Steals one small spark to cheer his world of night:
Dear spark! which oft, through winter's chilling woes,
Is all the warmth his little cottage knows!
Sheridan.

Laura was lightsome, gay, and free from guile;
Bright were her eyes, and beautiful her smile:
Women found fault, but men were heard to swear
That she was lovely, though she was not fair.
Her parents were not rich, nor very poor;
She had enough, nor breathed a wish for more;
Blithe were the mornings, gay the evenings spent,
And youthful eyes smiled back a calm content.
Yes, she was happy, and she was at rest,
Till the world filled with cares her little breast,
Taught her to fear all dowagers and mothers,
Smile on gay lords, and cut their younger brothers.

135

This last rule cost her now and then a sigh—
'Tis wrong to say so—but I know not why
Men, when they're handsome, are not liked the less,
And may be pleasant, though they're pennyless—
But Laura's mother never would agree
That needy men could pleasant partners be;
To gain her favour, vain was all exertion,
A younger brother was her great aversion.
The mother hoped and prayed—her prayer was granted,
A lordling came—the very thing she wanted—
“Oh! what a match, my dear!”—and Laura sighed
And hung her head, and timidly replied,
“She did not love,”—“What put it in your head
That it was needful?—you are asked to wed—
Romantic love is all a childish folly,
So marry, dear! and don't look melancholy;
Besides, you cannot always live at home—
Another year your sister's turn will come—
And you will be so rich!—where shall we go?
Let us begin to think of your trousseau!”
And Laura laughed, and looked up at her mother:
She loved not him—but then, she loved no other!
Days passed away—she spent the last few hours
In pinning on lace veils and orange flowers;
With beating heart the maid to church was carried,
And Laura blushed, and trembled, and—was married!
Quickly the happy couple speed away,
And friends' congratulations end the day.

136

“Sweet girl! how well she look'd! dress'd with such care!
How the rich veil became her face and hair!
A lovely woman, certainly,”—and Laura
Left friends behind, with all the world before her!
Dwelt for a while (remembrance sad and strong!)
In Laura's mind her little brother's song—
The quick light step—the blue and sparkling eye,
The bright perfection of his infancy—
Her sister's gentle smile—all these arise,
Whilst damp'd her wedding veil her weeping eyes;
But soon consoled, again the maid grew gay,
Swift in amusement flew each busy day;
The country seat was exquisite; she found
New beauties every time she looked around;
The lawn so green, so smooth, so sunny too,
The flowers so bright, the heavens of such a blue!—
“Oh! this was happiness!”—It might have been,
Had there been no reverse of this fair scene.
But Laura's lord was not what lords should be;—
Cold, harsh, unfeeling, proud, alas! was he—
And yet a very fool—had he been stern,
She would have tried the tyrant's will to learn—
Had he been passionate, she still had loved—
Or jealous, time her virtue would have proved;
But, as he was, without a soul or mind
Too savage e'en to be in seeming kind—
The slave of petty feelings, every hour
He changed his will, to show he had the power;

137

And Laura wept, that she had linked her fate
With one too cold to love, too mean to hate.
A mother's hopes were left her, and she said,
‘My child, at least, will love me!’ days, months, sped—
She watched the grave, and wept the early dead!
The scene was changed: nought pleases Laura now,
Nor sunny sky, nor richly sweeping bough;
At the long window, opening to the ground,
She sits, while evening spreads its shadows round;
Or through the glowing noon, for weary hours,
Watches the bees that flutter o'er the flowers;
Or when the moon is up, and stars are out,
She leaves her lonely room to roam about;
And while the night breeze murmurs o'er her head,
Upbraids the living, or bewails the dead!
Both are alike insensible—her mate,
Weary of home, hath left her to her fate;
Nor recks he now that Laura weeps or sighs,
So he enjoy what Heaven to her denies.
But there was one who thought eyes blue and deep,
Like Laura's were too beautiful to weep;
Perchance he told her so—perchance she guessed
He deemed her lovelier than his words expressed—
A cousin he of Laura's moody lord,
But how unlike him!—every gentle word
And gentlier tone—the song, the walk, the book,
The graceful step, the bright expressive look,
Awoke in her a deep and sad regret
Of what he might have been—ah! might be yet!

138

And yet she struggled with her yielding heart—
'Twas sin to meet—but oh! 'twas grief to part!
He never said he loved her—could she cry,
“Francis! you love me; Francis; you must fly?”
Perchance he loved her not—Alas! too well
Each knew the passion neither dared to tell.
Mute would they stand, upon some summer eve,
With melancholy rapture, prone to grieve;
Then, trembling, gaze upon each other's eyes,
The heaven of each, more worshipped than the skies.
Her lord returned—he saw her flushing cheek,
Her vain attempt to smile, or freely speak;
“Thou hast been false! I'll know the truth,”
He cried in fury—“Who's the favour'd youth?
Wretch! I will tear the minion limb from limb!”
But Laura's heart was full, her eye was dim:
She answered not, with faint, slow step withdrew,
Of Francis thought—and then to Francis flew.
“Thou knowest—God knows!”—no more the maiden said,
But on his shoulder dropped her sobbing head;
And Francis, as his arm was cast around her
(The first wild moment that fond arm e'er bound her),
Murmured,—“My love! my life! what, if we flee?
The world!—the world!—what is that world to me?
Thou art my world—I, thine—” and her reply
Was but a stifled sound—half sob, half sigh.

139

Oh! it is wretched, when the loss of fame
Hath left us but the shadow of a name—
When all forget us, all refuse to own,
And life is journey'd on, alone—alone!
'Tis bitter then to see the flame of love,
The only link for which we still would prove
Life's withering joys, expiring spark by spark,
Till all extinct, and we left lone and dark!
Thus Francis' love consumed itself away,
While mournful Laura drooped from day to day—
Her graceful Francis, all his passion o'er,
Grieved she had fallen to rise again no more—
Grieved that harsh scorn should hail her blighted name,
Grieved that she felt and saw he felt her shame.
At length he shunned her, and poor Laura sighed,
Murmured repentant prayers to Heaven—and died.
And then no more her Francis blamed the wife
Who left her mate to lead a guilty life;
No more he feels, what fond proud hearts must feel,
Who blush for those whose wounds they cannot heal,
But turned with fond regret, and useless call,
To her who with him had abandoned all!

And Francis, loved again, is happy now;
For he hath chosen him a gentle bride
With gay light heart, and pure and placid brow,
Unused to grief, and impotent to chide.

140

But hapless Laura, where is she the while?
The light gay form is mouldering in the grave;
The full and rosy lip hath ceased to smile,
And all is gone which bounteous Nature gave:

Pulseless the heart, and spiritless the eye,
Whence flashed a soul for better feelings framed;
The eloquent tongue with dust is choked and dry;
She shinned—she wept—and is no more ashamed.

141

THY WILL BE DONE!

Thy will be done! how hard a thing to say
When sickness ushers in death's dreary knell;
When eyes, that lately sparkled bright and gay,
Wander around with dimly conscious ray,
To some familiar face, to bid farewell!

Thy will be done!—the falt'ring lips deny
A passage to the tones is yet unheard;
The sob convulsed, the raised and swimming eye
Seem as appealing to their God on high
For power to breathe the yet imperfect word.

Orphan! who watches by the silent tomb
Where those who gave thee life all coldly sleep;
Or thou, who sittest in thy desolate home,
Calling to those beloved who cannot come,
And, thinking o'er thy loneliness, dost weep!

142

Widow! who musest over by-gone years
Of life, and love, and happiness with him
Who shared thy joys and sorrows, hopes and fears,
Who now are left to shed unnoticed tears,
Till thy fair cheek is wan, and eyes grow dim!

Husband! who dreamest of thy gentle wife,
And still in fancy see'st her rosy smile
Brightening a world of bitterness and strife;
Who from the lonely future of thy life
Turnest, in dreariness, to weep the while!

Mother! whose prayers could not avail to save
Him whom thou lovedst most, thy blue-eyed boy!
Who with a bitter agony dost rave
To the wild winds that fan his early grave,
And dashedst from thy lips the cup of joy!

And thou! not widowed, yet bereaved one,
Who, buried in thy tearless, mute despair,
Roamest a desert world alone—alone,
To seek him out who from thine eyes is gone,
Scarce able to believe he is not there!

Mourners! who linger in a world of woe,
Each bowing 'neath his separate load of grief,
Turn from the silent tomb; and kneeling low
Before that throne at which the angels bow,
Invoke a God of mercy for relief!

143

Pray that ye too may journey, when ye die,
To that far world where blessed souls are gone;
And, through the gathering sob of agony,
Raise, with a voice resigned, the humble cry,
“Father—Creator—Lord! thy will be done!”

144

TO A CHILD.

Dost thou wonder at my weeping
Beneath such sunny skies,
While sympathy is creeping
To thy bright and joyous eyes?

Thou art young, my child, nor knowest
The bitterness of woe;
But e'er from earth thou goest,
Thy tears shall amply flow.

Those bright and wistful glances
Are raised to me in vain;
If but my grief enhances,
That for me thou feelest pain!

Thou art glad when birds are singing
Their songs of joy and love;
Thou art glad when church bells, ringing,
Bid thee worship Him above;

145

Thou art joyous when thou feelest
The first fresh breath of day,
And at evening when thou kneelest
By thy mother's side to pray.

When on tiptoe-step, behind thee
Thy young companions creep,
Thou laughest as they bind thee
And start'st from mimic sleep.

And in thy lonelier hours,
When thy youthful mates are gone,
Thou art happy 'midst the flowers,
Smiling with them at the sun!

But sad to me the singing
Of the birds whose notes you praise:
And to me the church bells, ringing,
Sound the knell of happier days.

The friends I had have perished,
Or coldly turn away!
The lingering hope I cherished
Is now a darkened ray!

What I most love is sleeping
All silently and cold,

146

And the dews and I are weeping
Upon the unconscious mould.

And thou, my child, who'rt coming,
With thy sunny smiling eye,
To watch me, mournful roaming,
And weep thou know'st not why!

Thy gentle love, thy duty,
The promise of thy years,
Thine innocence, thy beauty,
Are all a cause for tears.

For Time will dim the beaming
Of that smile so soft and bright;
And the tear of sorrow, streaming,
Will quench thine eyes' sweet light!

Oh! when hopes are all departed
That smiled around thy way,
And, lone and broken hearted,
Thou sighest for to-day;

Should some kindly hand be near thee,
And seek thy woes to heal,
Then the vain attempt to cheer thee
Shall teach thee what I feel!

147

MUSIC'S POWER.

Have you never heard, in music's sound,
Some chords which o'er your heart
First fling a moments magic round,
Then silently depart?
But with the echo on the air,
Roused by that simple lay,
It leaves a world of feeling there
We cannot chase away.
Yes, yes,—a sound hath power to bid them come—
Youth's half-forgotten hopes, childhood's remembered home.

When sitting in your silent home
You gaze around and weep,
Or call to those who cannot come
Nor wake from dreamless sleep;

148

Those chords, as oft as you bemoan
“The distant and the dead,”
Bring dimly back the fancied tone
Of some sweet voice that's fled!
Yes, yes,—a sound hath power to bid them come—
Youth's half-forgotten hopes, childhood's remembered home.

And when, amid the festal throng,
You are, or would be gay—
And seek to while, with dance and song,
Your sadder thoughts away;
They strike those chords and smiles depart,
As, rushing o'er your soul,
The untold feelings of the heart
Awake, and spurn controul!
Yes, yes,—a sound hath power to bid them come—
Youth's half-forgotten hopes, childhood's remembered home.